


after dark

by nevergreen



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst with an Implied Happy Ending, Comfort, Established Relationship, Insomnia, M/M, References to Illness, Sick Brett, With hope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:41:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29519628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevergreen/pseuds/nevergreen
Summary: There are a lot of things Eddy does when he can't fall asleep. Sometimes none of them work, except one.
Relationships: Eddy Chen/Brett Yang
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	after dark

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [黑夜降临之后](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29778360) by [liseyalice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liseyalice/pseuds/liseyalice)



> thank you for your hard work!!! ♥
> 
> [my twitter](https://twitter.com/twosetforti), come say hi
> 
> [title: Mr. Kitty - After Dark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVx1mJDeUjY)

There are a lot of ways to make some worth out of his sleepless time. Through nights that are exhausting and last forever, through ones that are lonely and ones when a much needed company can’t help him fall asleep, still; Eddy’s got his way with every single one of them.

For nights that are good, he’s got a lot; being nocturnal comes with a natural ability to become one with things when no one’s around. He watches videos – and more often than not forgets to switch to his personal account, so Brett teases him over ASMRs with eating obscene amounts of pink chocolate, and pets obstacle challenges with sticky tape, and drawing anime characters in every shade of green; he reads long insta posts – poorly worded metaphors, paragraphs he never figured out how to do – and doesn’t even bother with switching accounts here, because Brett logged in from his phone and forgot, so he’s extra careful not to like things.  


He draws if he’s in mood, and every sketch goes under the bed; he hums all kinds of things under his nose – messing up Korean and Japanese lyrics, and if any of their singing friends heard him they’d be terrified, he thinks; he’s not that bad, it’s just no one should be around for him to sound good enough. He works sometimes, if needed – having a brand means a lot of work, surprisingly boring at times, but still fulfilling.

Not all his sleepless nights are like this, though; Eddy is a thinker, and a diligent one, so at times there are nights when he feels disconnected from the rest of the world, lost, left at mercy of his own mind. Sometimes it’s a dull ache, speaking with him in a language unintelligible but discontented; sometimes his thoughts turn into vultures devouring him. It’s that kind of night when he can’t do whatever he’s used to occupying himself with; nothing works, nothing is loud enough to outcry the thoughts. 

Tonight, it's one of these, and the fact that Eddy’s used to all kinds of thoughts coming at him doesn’t mean it becomes easier to bear with them; if anything, it’s harder to come up with new ways to justify himself.  
The last resort for him is always there, though; after a while he gives up and texts Brett, in a feeble attempt to make himself busy. It’s 2 am, and Brett is sleeping, for sure, but it’s too crowded in Eddy’s head right now, so he could at least imagine that one voice that able to talk down his restless mind. He texts a simple and plain _“i can’t sleep!!!”_ and doesn’t expect an answer while putting the phone away; so when the screen lights up, illuminating the ceiling, Eddy grabs it again so fast he almost drops it.  


_“So, nothing new,”_ the text says, and Eddy can’t help but smile, and when after a few seconds the smile doesn’t go away, the feeling of belonging rekindles in Eddy’s chest, embracing him and filling him up, spilling through the fingers in the quick, honest and longing

_“i wish you were here”_

\- that’s what his heart sings. 

Eddy sends it faster than he even thinks about what else he could possibly answer, and only then realizes that he should have asked Brett why he isn’t sleeping; it’s not quite him to still be up at 2 am. And so Eddy texts Brett this, as well, and much more; about the shadows in his room, and the photos he took today – _hold on, I’ll send you some_ \- and how Peach would best Jigglypuff in hand-to-hand combat, because _let’s face it he’s a fucking ball man you can just kick him out of the stage_ , and the piece he’s working on.  


Every message is read immediately, and it feels almost like Brett is listening to him, without interrupting; Eddy writes all his head out for Brett and waits for the answer, hypnotizing the “Brett is typing...” line above the chat where the start of the conversation is way above, too far to scroll. Brett types, and stops, and types again; Eddy’s eyes are tearing up from looking at the screen for too long. He reaches for the lamp on the bedstand, and flips the switch; then it appears on the screen, and it’s nowhere as long as Brett made it look like with all his prolonged typing.  


_“Then come here”_ , that’s what it says.

The thing with the excessive thinking, as Eddy tried to explain to Brett once, is that some things are new to him, they come at sleepless nights, and it’s pointless to guess if they are going to hunt him or be of an aid; only time will tell. This time, he acquires a new one: sometimes, if you can’t shut your thoughts, you can just go where it’s loud enough so your inner voice can’t hear itself.

Eddy rolls out of the bed and dresses quickly like he’s being chased; in a sense, he is, by the unrelenting morning, but that’s something future Eddy will have to deal with. Yesterday, they decided to meet after Eddy wakes up; it was supposed to happen in less than twelve hours, but now Eddy’s full of relief, of thought that he’s going to see Brett soon, no need in waiting and trying to get through the night - and his every movement is fast and impatient.  


He jumps into his jeans, nearly ripping the hole on the knee further; the t-shirt he fishes out of his closet is the one he seemingly didn’t wear in months, but it smells alright so Eddy decides to roll with it. He takes a jumper with him, for a good measure, finds his keys, then turns off all the lights and storms out of the house, running from the darkness chasing him; the air is fresh and cool, transparent, and feels so good on his skin that Eddy can’t believe he stayed inside for so long.

It’s warm inside the car, a little too much for his liking; Eddy opens all the windows and breathes deep while firing the engine, he just can’t get enough of this air that makes him feel weightless. Carefully driving out of his parking spot with one hand, Eddy plugs his phone in with another, flickering his hand over the screen. Sleepless nights are working for him, now; there’s a playlist Eddy has made for the next time he gets to drive them somewhere, and picking up Brett while listening to a particular [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sVx1mJDeUjY) may seem cheesy in the daylight; but it’s night, everything is exhilaratingly clear, and Eddy is going to take his favorite person in the world on the ride. 

Brett is waiting for Eddy outside, thin and ghost-like in his white t-shirt. He doesn’t wait for Eddy to go out and open the door for him - he does it himself, jumping in and shutting the door behind his back; he’s cold to touch and immediately digs under Eddy’s t-shirt with his hands, and he tastes just like this night feels.  


Eddy doesn't drive them anywhere in particular, just gets them somewhere closer to the center of the city; they find the place to abandon the car, and go out only to get completely drunk on the night air and cherry beer they get from the nearest store. It’s cheap and tasty, and Eddy kisses artificial sweeteners from Brett’s tongue sloppily, making him laugh. They’re in no mood to pick a club or a party; the night is too good to stay inside, and Eddy can’t stop himself from taking photos; there are neither Eddy nor Brett on any of them, but Eddy knows they will be enough to remember.

They go back, after an hour or so of circling the narrow alleys, choosing ones where there are fewer people; they run after each other in an empty parking lot, their laughter echoing under the concrete arches covered with graffiti. Brett takes out the tip marker, items they used to sign with these flash before Eddy’s eyes: a Paganini score, one hundred dollar bill, a small expensive-looking bag, a hand, small and pale - countless of hands, how are they doing now? The marker can write, still, there is just enough ink for Brett to scribble EDDY + BRETTY on a wall, while Eddy turns on the flashlight on his phone; it makes crooked letters gain extra dimensions and turn dark blue. Then Brett presses him to the wall, and they kiss again, feverishly, until there’s a loud honk of a car coming, echoing from afar.  


“They’re stealing your car!” Brett exhales in Eddy’s lips and laughs and giggles and screams when Eddy tries to cover his mouth. “Go get them, Eddy! Eddy, what are you doing, are you fucking insane! How are we gonna go home!” He howls with laughter, it echoes around and Eddy promises, squeezing him in his arms:

“I’ll carry you.”

  
///

Eddy can see a lot from here: a wide road, dotted with bright car lights, blocks of flats hugging the street tightly, a smooth curve of a bridge peeking out, the one they once stayed for half an hour under. It was February, and they suddenly remembered that New Year resolutions are a thing, so they went jogging and got caught in the rain on their way back; they stayed under the bridge but got completely soaked anyway, so Brett took Eddy’s hand and pulled him out, and they ran all the way home, through the rain fierce and sudden, whipping their shoulders into numbness.

They never went jogging after; too many things happened at once, and they were busy dealing with them, all at once, and then… well.

This night seems like one of those long, sleepless nights when they used to go out; over time, it becomes more and more of a rare occasion - _ifs_ are piling up each year. If they don’t have a packed schedule for the next day. If they’re on tour. If they have slept enough the day before. If there’s no need to revise anything team-related. If Brett feels okay.  


This last _if_ weighs on them heavier than everything they had before. 

The night is clear, it seems like it’s really nice outside right now; Eddy checks the weather on his phone and presses his cheek into the cool glass of the window. Behind his back, Brett murmurs something in his sleep, tossing and turning in between blankets; they rustle quietly, and Eddy turns to him, swiftly, slides back to the bed from the windowsill in a heartbeat.

“Brett?” he calls to him, quiet and worried, and bites his cheek the second he says it; no worry allowed. “Are you sleeping?”  
A quiet, raspy “no” after a second of silence, and Eddy’s heart drops; over the past month he got used to this feeling, alerting him over the slightest things, so he barely sleeps now, constantly on the edge.  
Eddy slides under the blanket and finds Brett’s hand with his; it’s thin and hot, the pulse is a bit uneven. Brett’s face, surrounded by pillows, looks pale and small; his lips are dry. 

“How do you feel? Are you alright?” Eddy whispers, brushing the grown strand of hair off his face; unlike hands, Brett’s forehead is cold to touch.  
Brett’s “yeah” that follows is voiceless, a breath only. He wants to say something else, Eddy sees it by his face, and offers in advance:  
“Want some water?” 

A nod, and a whisper, again. “Open the window a bit.”  
Eddy shakes his head, pressing his lips together. “No, love,” he says, as soft and sure as he can, “I really don’t want you to get a cold.” 

“It’s hot in here,” Brett mumbles, and he doesn’t look hot in the slightest, but his jaded face tears everything inside Eddy in pieces, so he turns away, climbs out of bed, and takes Brett some water instead; he supports him by the back of his head while Brett drinks in small, careful sips, and Brett’s hair is wet against his palm. “I need some fresh air, Eddy,” he breathes out, and he’s not whispering anymore, but it’s not quite a voice, either. Eddy puts the glass on the bedstand and lies down next to Brett; kisses his temple, then forehead and shoulder, then sighs deeply. 

“I wanna go out,” Brett says, quietly, and he’s not asking for anything, Eddy knows, it’s just a desperate plea of someone who isn’t used to be bedridden at all; but his heart sinks, and he squeezes his eyes shut, not letting tears go out, only quiet _“me too”_ , hoping that whispering will hide the desperation in his voice. 

They lie in silence for a bit more, then Eddy gets up. He climbs over Brett’s legs, steps on the floor, and he’s not quite sure what he’s doing, but doctors didn’t say anything about it; after all, haven’t they assured him that Brett’s going to be okay? Time and patience, they repeated one after another; and Eddy promised to be patient and stoic, but maybe, it includes deciding these things as well? 

“Hold on me, Bretty,” he whispers, leaning to him and wrapping him in the blanket, tightly; Brett holds his arms out, and Eddy sees it all over Brett’s face, just how much of a struggle it is for him. “What are you doing?” Brett murmurs to his ear, weak arms encircling Eddy’s neck; Eddy slides both his arms under Brett and lifts him off the bed, presses him to the chest - and it takes him a whole series of sharp breaths to shoo his tears away, because Brett weighs almost nothing now. He tucks the corners of the blanket under Brett’s ankles and says, trying to smile:  


“We’re going out.”

And so they do - out of the room, through the hall to the living space, fumbling with a balcony door lock. Then Eddy steps forward, closing the door behind them with his foot, and stands there for a while. It's not near as cold as Eddy thought it's going to be; Brett’s nestled against his chest, content and quiet, squints, near-sighted, on the bright lights and breathes deeply and slowly. “Can’t see shit,” his voice is less of a rustle and more of a usual Brett, just so very tired; he even manages to squint his whole face, like he always does. “Bring me my glasses. Or bring me to them.” 

“No can do,” Eddy teases him, composed but secretly gleeful; he treasures every moment when there are glimpses of that usual Brett he knows and loves. “You're going to bed soon. After you take your pills.” 

Brett scoffs, and it costs him the rest of his short-living energy fit. “Whatever,” he mumbles, closing his eyes. “Are we gonna go out tomorrow? If you won’t sleep again?”  
“Sure,” Eddy promises, tightening his embrace around Brett and holding him closer. If only his arms felt as heavy as his heart does. “Not gonna sleep.” 

They stay there a minute longer; the light wind plays with Brett’s hair, air is cool and fresh, and tastes just like back then. Then Eddy turns back to the door. 

He still needs to finish some work tonight, and Brett’s pills are still a trick to figure out, and he promised. The faint, half-forgotten taste of cheap cherry beer is lingering on his tongue. 

**Author's Note:**

> just a reminder: Brett has recovered and everything's fine :)


End file.
